Here we are. The darkness of the night engulfs our small unit of young soldiers. Out of the black background of a moonless sky comes sniper fire. I hear the sizzle of an incoming round burning a trail through the air. One soldier falls, his body limp as a rag and just as lifeless. His only complaint is a slight "uuuh" and then a thud as he drops to the ground. We take cover wherever we can and try to see where the shooter is while dragging our lifeless comrade to shelter with us. This is war. Another bullet from atop an apartment building echoes in the night and we locate our buddies' murderer.

The sergeant in charge orders us into the building and we scurry like mice to enter and secure the premises room by room, not knowing who or how many insurgents might lay in wait behind each door. We clear the building, checking for booby traps along the way until we find ourselves about to open the door to the roof. We pause for a tense moment. We feel the sweat dripping down our faces, and soaking our bodies, to finally puddle in our boots while we try to catch our breath. We know that whoever is waiting for us has his gun pointed at the door, waiting to kill the first few soldiers who go through; waiting to throw hand grenades down the stairway to maim and kill the rest of us. But we know what we have to do, so our training kicks in and we burst through. The roof is empty. Our opponent has evaded us. The drama is over.

On a typical day, nothing like this happens. We feel secure on our base. We wake up, have breakfast, and wait to see what the orders of the day have us doing. It seems that most of the time, we are on a good-will mission. We hand out water, school supplies, toys and even rations to Iraqis that need it, and so many of them do. We supply security for other soldiers who build schools, dig wells for those without running water and protect contractors bringing electricity to people in villages that seem to be right out of the stone age. The people tell us of years of Saddam's broken promises to help them and can't believe the Americans are really doing what they had thought possible only in dreams. They tell us of atrocities committed by Saddam and his men, and I half believe they expect us to be like him. I can sense their wonder of how it can be that we are not.

There is fear in the eyes of the village elders, but it is not fear of Americans. They bring us their complaints and requests and we try to assist them as we can.

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